The Fruits of Our Spite
by Sunflowers In Moscow
Summary: RusBel / / Natalya shuddered as an icy breath caressed the lobe of her ear, mirroring his hands as they ran themselves up and down her waist. "What exactly do you think you are doing, my Natasha?" "That is precisely it, my dearest brother, I am not your Natasha." Her bold statement was betrayed by her actions as she unconsciously leaned back into his body. "Aren't you?"


_**I don't own Hetalia**_

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_**Warnings: Some content and some language, both profane and suggestive.**_

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The air of the club was muggy, the pungent scent of alcohol hung heavy in her nostrils and clung to her hair. The sprawl of bodies continued their hypnotic swaying to the deep beat as the music blared out of the speakers, while she stood at the bar, holding a large glass of red wine - one of Spain's, by the taste. She didn't have her elder siblings' tolerance to alcohol, therefore no vodka, and she didn't want this night to fade into a haze like so many before.

She took a sip of it, swirling it around her mouth to savour the fruity flavour before swallowing. She licked her coloured lips delicately, before placing the glass down on the polished stone surface of the bar and turning to face the dance floor.

Natalya wasn't even really sure why she was here.

Perhaps it was some form of resistance, rebellion against her domineering big brother and his hypocritical nature. He didn't want her love, but God forbid she bestow it upon anyone else. She _had_ tried, as there was only so many times a person could be rejected before the message finally, brutally pierced the denial. Yet, nothing had come of it. The only other nations she had been able to meet were other ex-Soviet states (none of whom were even worth a glance), and America - but let's be honest here, she had standards. She had tried to move on, but he wouldn't let her.

It was almost cruel.

He essentially had her blacklisted in every government building in Russia, and had a look out posted (she was sure of it) to watch for her arrival - the situation had gotten to the point where he used his personal power to have her locked in her own land like some misbehaving child, and she wouldn't stand for it any longer. As if he could tell her what to do - no matter how much she loved him, she wouldn't submit to him like one of his other pathetic ex-satellite states, like Lithuania. She was strong, she always had been, and unlike other women, she wouldn't let love make her weak.

It had taken her several days to figure out the best way to escape, and now she found herself in a dance club in Moscow, the urge get back at him more powerful than the longing for true freedom. She knew he could sense her here, on his land. She was a vindictive person, no lies, and growing up with someone has its advantages. She knew the best way to crawl under Ivan's skin.

Ivan, under all of his hatred and his rage, his benevolence and his insecurity; most of all, he was a possessive man. Even if he didn't want something, if he believed it belonged to him then nothing else was allowed to touch it.

He believed strongly that she belonged to him, this she knew for a certainty. It had given her some comfort through the rough nights at the beginning of her love for him - that maybe one day he would return her affection. She was not so naive now. No. Now she felt a small spark of vengeance igniting in her chest, and she wanted to fan the flame. Hurt him like he always hurt her.

She loved him so much, but she wanted to hurt him. Maybe they were well matched after all.

Natalya took a deep breath to steady herself, her heart pacing itself to the bone shaking beat, before she slid slowly into the fluctuating masses - brushing her hands over young, energetic bodies and weaving her web as she went.

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He was walking out of the Scientific & Technical Documents Archive after a meeting with one of the archivists when he felt her presence, like a mental blossom of colour in the corner of a map in his mind. She was roughly a kilometre away, and his first response was confusion. Then, he received a vague impression of her intentions, and his confusion mutated into rage.

Before he knew it, he was dressed to go out, and he was marching towards her location. Several short cuts later, and he was striding smoothly into a hazy, dirty club filled to bursting point with the younger Russian generation, all consumed with lustful and avaricious thoughts.

Then he saw her.

The wall he was leaning on was hardly sanitary, what with all the sweaty bodies that had been pressed against it over the years, but he didn't care. His navy shirt was replaceable - all of his things were replaceable. They were there for him to have, to use, and then to discard if he so wished. He kept them in their places, and so they were always there when he needed them.

However, it seemed that one of his pretty dolls was insistent on jumping off the shelf.

Natalya was dancing along with every other human, her deep blue eyes half lidded and an enticing smile on her face. Her hands swayed above her head, occasionally waving down to brush a hand over her partner's chest, before floating back up into the air. Her hair was lightly curled, deliberately, since her hair was naturally straight, and as she tossed about her head they danced in a mockery of her own movements, the platinum blonde strands catching the flashing lights. However, while her calculated movements were indeed rather entrancing, it was the pair of male hands on her hips that held his attention. He watched with the eyes of a starving hawk as the thumbs rubbed her thinly covered body, and fingers digging into her luscious skin.

His fists clenched, and his head tilted downwards as the gruesome show unfolded before him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a woman who had been about to approach him back off, and he felt a twisted sense of satisfaction at her wariness. Something curled and writhing inside of him, a bitter and mutated creature that he willingly fed his discontent at Natalya's actions. His violet eyes that were tinged with violent intentions once again focussed on the gluttonous grip the unidentifiable human had on her body, and he had to force himself not to push off of the wall and slam his face into the floor.

No. He would wait. Let his sister act the whore for a little while longer - she never failed to sense him, and she had to have some small measure of self respect left. Just as his sister knew him, he knew his sister. She was too proud for an anonymous fuck.

Then Ivan would act, because no one touched what was his, and it was time Natalya acknowledged that fact.

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Natalya pressed herself further into the human's body, trying to convey her intentions without actually coming out and saying it. It seemed to work, as his hold on her grew slightly tighter, and his right hand slid up to brush under her breasts. She threw a beckoning look at him, and received a drunken smile in return.

She suppressed her repulsed reaction as quickly as she could, but not before the feeling of insects crawling up her spine became apparent. She managed to disguise a shiver, because this was precisely what she was looking for. He was too drunk to remember her, and would not expect anything more than one night. He was also too unfocussed to recognise her for what she was, a nation. At this proximity, he should be feeling the need to refuse her, as he was Russian, and they were all connected to Russia. A basic, primal imprint of Russia's wishes were in all of his people, but the alcohol blocked out any subconscious signals that he might be getting.

All the more convenient.

She tried to concentrate on the fact he was Russian - he was part of her big brother. She should be able to make it work. She gave him a seductive smile back.

He was Russian. He was Russian. He was Russia.

But he was not Ivan.

The corner of her mouth twitched down, and she suddenly felt an unbelievable flood of trepidation. This was not what she wanted to do. She didn't want to give herself like this, after all these years of waiting for her big brother to realise his love for her, after all these years of saving herself. She was physically nineteen, and literally centuries old, and yet she had been untouched for all that time. And here she was, about to throw it all away out of spite. She wanted to get back at him for controlling her, but she didn't want to damage herself in the process.

She knew that nowadays it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do - virginity was not the treasure it had once been, but Natalya was an old soul. Since she was young, all though her adolescence, she had been told by her sister and her guardians to protect her purity above all.

She felt a pulse of rage in her subservience to the old ways, to ways that were rapidly going out of date in the modern, liberal world - yet she could not force herself to do this.

She still loved him. She was not human. She wouldn't fall prey to humanity's ridiculous societal nuances.

She stood up on her tiptoes, and shouted over the music into her dance partner's ear in slightly accented Russian.

"I have to- I can't- I'm sorry, I have to go."

He frowned, and she was concerned (not worried, she had her knife tucked into her tights) that he would cause trouble and try to prevent her from leaving. She didn't want to cause a scene.

He sighed irritably and shrugged, releasing her hips. "Fine."

With that, she was left staring at the filthy floor, alone with her troubled thoughts amongst the bustling crowd. There was a space in her chest, filled with frustration and unfulfilled expectations, yet empty. It made her feel like a long, thin plant with no support, being buffeted in different directions by the wind, waiting with fear for the strong gust that was guaranteed to come and snap her completely in two.

The out of place feeling didn't dissipate, neither did the slow, creeping tension that was clinging to her legs and pulling itself up her body until she was surrounded, and suffocating.

The next thing she knew, a couple bumped forcefully into her, and she was knocked out of her daze. Her eyes widened with more than simple alarm when she identified the purple tinge receding on the edge of her vision. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she felt the strangest mix of dread, anticipation and _hunger_.

But that hunger was not hers.

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When he saw her standing alone, he couldn't help himself.

She was right there, ripe for the picking - Ivan was many things, but never a saint.

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Natalya gasped loudly as two much larger, familiar hands clamped over her hips where her previous partner's had been - they were like pokers, penetrating the fragile material of her short, formfitting dress and burning possessive, sensual brands onto her pale skin. They left no mark, but she could feel it, scarring her irrevocably.

She was pulled against a large body, more than a head taller than her with a hard build. She could sense that raw instinct seeping out of him, as ruthless and unforgiving as the land that birthed them both. She shuddered as an icy breath caressed the lobe of her ear, mirroring his hands as they ran themselves up and down her waist.

"What exactly do you think you are doing, my Natasha?" He enunciated every syllable in his perfect Russian, and she hid how much she enjoyed hearing his unique voice once more.

"That is precisely it, my dearest brother, I am not your Natasha." Her bold statement was betrayed by her actions as she unconsciously leaned back into his looming form, cherishing the rare sensation of his body against hers.

"Are you not mine? Do you not belong to _me_?" The barely concealed fury that was lurking below the surface was obvious to solely her, the woman who had made an art of knowing Russia inside to out.

Hence, she knew the exact reaction she would receive.

"No. I am not yours." _Such lies I speak._

His hands were like vices on her shoulders as he lifted her around to face him, one of his arms wrapping tightly - too tight, but she couldn't help the pleasurable tingle - around her small body. His other hand grasped her chin and pushed her head up so he could look her eyes.

She almost collapsed at the vicious look in his eyes, the warning flash of green mesmerising. It had her murmuring something in English she had heard so long ago, from an unexpected source.

"It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on..."

A smirk lit up his face, and she felt a spasm of adrenaline shoot through her veins. Her skin was on fire, as he now trailed his hands up her bare arms, his chin resting threateningly on her shoulder. It was only when one of his hands gripped her neck lightly and squeezed that her breath caught.

"Indeed, Natasha."

And then his hands were scalding beacons on her hips once more, and he was dancing with her along to the bass. But it wasn't so much dancing as grinding, his eyes unmercifully striking deeper and deeper into her soul. They were cold yet they burnt her, such a deceptively enchanting shade that stole into her mind like a cuckoo into a nest, before possessing her very being.

She didn't know what she was doing as her small hands ran up his firm chest and around his unusually bare neck, her fingers - oh, they were shaking - slick but holding tight to his skin. With her arms around him and her gaze trapped like a deer, she couldn't comprehend anything else. Not the time passing, nor the never-ending contact with other patrons - she only saw Ivan, heard Ivan, smelled Ivan, _tasted _Ivan.

The kiss was heady, his tongue demanding entrance to her mouth. She opened to him willingly, and her fingers ran through his pale blond hair, pulling the damp strands roughly as he took all she would give and even more, as he always did. His movements were as he was, dominating and taunting, but she gave just as good as she could, teasing and then denying him what she had silently promised.

He gave a angered groan, and bit her lip when she smirked, drawing blood that he greedily lapped up. The iron tang encouraged him to go faster, fiercer until she was whining and her painful grip on his head was pushing him away as well as pulling him close.

Finally, just as the side of pain was beginning to triumph over the pleasure, he unsealed their mouths, both panting. He looked over her ravished appearance with a sick sense of victory, her lips cut and bruised, a red hand print where he had been holding her shoulder. She saw his slightly startled yet satisfied expression, and felt both selfish pride and the urge to stab him at the same time.

They smirked simultaneously, and as he gently cupped her cheek, as if she were one of his sunflowers before agonisingly grabbing her skin - she felt something awakening inside of her. It battled inside of her, howling and snarling, and she almost felt like its savage golden eyes were her own.

Her hands were still in his hair, and in retaliation, she sadistically dug her long nails as deep as she could into his scalp. His eyelids fluttered with masochistic gratification, and she grinned wickedly, her tongue licking her lips with a provocative implication.

This was not the love she had wanted or ever expected... it was nothing like what she had waited for centuries for.

No.

But this was Ivan.

_It was better._

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**You all have no idea how long I've wanted to write this pairing. TOO LONG, but the inspiration never surfaced. But boom! Here it is! Thank the Tumblr Hetalia tag for that.**

**Kudos for anyone who recognises the English quote! I thought it was a rather appropriate one.**

**The songs Basshunter - Russia Privjet; David Guetta ft. Sia - She Wolf; and Christina Aguilera - Dirrty are recommended listening for this fic :)**

**I know this is kind of a rare pair, and it's usually all rapefics (which I do not like, thank you). I wanted to do something slightly different .**

**So please review! I'd really, really appreciate some feedback.**


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